I am drinking mint tea and thinking about maybe participating in a graduate seminar on the history of the book with a professor who I idolize for his nuanced and beautifully written scholarship. It's history of the book or history of medicine, both of which come with challenging, exciting projects, neither, though, of which are very sexy. I wrote to my old psychologist for advice and go for it is what he suggested. I failed badly when I was his patient, I would always lose my nerve. Initial reading for the class arrived via e-mail and historiographically I get exactly where it is coming from: the class I am finishing has set it up perfectly (the same is true in reverse: the new ideas have for once issued a brainstorm to tie up loose ends on an old project). Taking the class was like staring out the window on a long train trip, only I was staring at a numbingly boring discussion.
I have been watching a lot of hockey (boring/stimulating), collecting books and not thinking about what I can do to cope better. I wonder about the extent to which being forced to show that I will take medication has left gaps in conversations, and about how much more I give up now, relying on a pill. Sometimes I think that I generally coped better when I cared intensely about the music I was listening to, but most music now annoys me, grates on my nerves. Then I coped by eating less, dampening my physiology with long walks and a little starvation, which would have not helped me to think better. Now I take a long-acting sedative every night, knowing that it impairs my memory and mental sharpness, but willing to take the trade so that I can be calm enough to write sentences. I could be calmer still if I took another antipsychotic, but so far the matches have caused me to lactate, raised hormones linked to causing cancer, and caused me to gain weight at an alarming and irritating rate.
I am not sure whether I am talking myself in to or out of things.
4 hours ago